Displaced Aggression
by VegetaCold
Summary: Set after "Control Freaks" "Reality Trip" hasn't happened yet . Vlad breaks Freakshow out of jail and recruits him to help control Danny. Please R&R or I won't continue And yes, as typical of me, there will be strong language.
1. Chapter 1

"Hey, Shaun," Randy greeted his fellow police officer as he paraded past his desk in the lone police station.

"Hey, Randy," Shaun replied, pausing in the doorway that connected the lobby with a short corridor of rooms used for briefing and interrogation. At the end of this hallway, there was another door that lead into the cell house. The police station was not too entirely large—there was, with the exception of ghost attacks, little criminal activity in Amity Park, and there was no need for more than a few cells and a few officers, usually two or three, on duty at once.

"Nothing too exciting tonight, I take it," Randy said, his eyes studying the daily newspaper lazily.

Shaun sighed exasperatedly, snatching the sports section of the paper off the desk. Holding it up to eyelevel, he murmured, "As usual."

Randy glanced up from the comics and fixed his tired gaze on the clock on the wall across the room. Then he looked back down at the paper and paged through it. "Fifteen more minutes, man."

"Thank fuck," Shaun said roughly, wanting nothing more than to go home to his wife and two girls, his perfect, all-American family. His daughters would be asleep, but his wife would be up waiting for him with a late supper, and dessert for afterward…

"Yeah, no kidding," Randy agreed, imagining his wife as she shed her robe after their son and daughter had gone to bed and stood waiting for him in the doorway in nothing but a lacey bra and a pair of see-through panties. "Damn," he said aloud at the thought.

"Your wife?"

"Yeah," Randy said dreamily, almost dazed, and then again, "damn, I can't wait to get in bed with her."

"I wouldn't either," Shaun chirped, causing Randy to turn and glare at him. Shaun chuckled and said in reply, "Come on, you can't blame me for mentally undressing her."

When Randy's ballpoint pen came soaring toward his head, Shaun promptly ducked behind the desk and resurfaced moments later, laughing. Soon, Randy was laughing as well, because that was simply how they joked.

Randy nodded toward the doorway after they'd calmed down. "I have to go check on our _favorite_ prisoner before Garcia and Collins get here."

"Our _only_ prisoner," Shaun corrected, grinning.

"God, our job sucks," Randy said, smiling spitefully.

"It really does."

As Shaun gathered his things and put on his coat, Randy walked down the short corridor and unlocked the door of the cell house. He pushed it open and went inside.

"Yo, Joker!" he yelled, grinning from ear to ear, and then said teasingly, "Going home to Harley now!"

Usually, he got an immediate response, a voice that was impertinent and consumed with rage that was just barely contained. Usually, he heard: _I am not the Joker!_

Tonight, however, Randy heard nothing, but he thought nothing of it, at least not at first. He said, unfazed, "Hey, Joker, you sleeping?"

When he still got no reply, he walked toward the prisoner's cell, the one cell in the police station that was equipped with spectral-energy-neutralizing properties, provided by the _number one ghost-fighting family in town_—at least that was what they said—the Fentons.

"Hey, Freakshow," he began more seriously, when he opened the door to the cell and saw it.

In the back of Freakshow's cell, cut into the wall, a perfect, eight by five foot rectangle stared back at Randy, exposing the rugged forest of pine that lay behind the police station, cloaked by night's black curtain. A gust of chilly air blew in through the opening and ruffled Randy's hair as he stared past the empty cell and out into the darkness silently, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide.

"_Shaun!_" Randy shrieked, bolting back down the hallway, out of the cell house and into the lobby where Shaun was just clocking out. "_Oh my god, Shaun, we lost the only prisoner we had! Shaun!_"

* * *

Almost four hours out of Amity Park, they rode in a luxurious convertible, the radio blaring death-metal music. The man in the driver's seat looked like he would rather shove scissors in his ears than listen to the growling vocalist and the mind-numbingly loud beat of the drums coupled with the distorted guitar. The man in the passenger's seat, however, was drumming his fingers on the dashboard and tapping his foot, looking at the scenery as they passed it by, seemingly at ease.

The man in the driver's seat glanced curiously at his dancing hands and feet, a small, confused smile forming on his face. "So there _is_ a beat to this song," he yelled over the blaring music, sarcasm shooting through his voice.

"I take it you don't listen to this kind of music, Plasmius. But who can blame you? It's for disturbed people, and that I am, of course."

Vlad Plasmuis glanced the man in the passenger's seat over quickly, almost feebly, observing him. He wore a red suit with a black vest, a long black trench coat, tall black boots, a black bowtie, black gloves, a black hat with a red brim, and glistening red earrings that hung from his ears. His face was painted white and eyes were dark with makeup, his lips red with lipstick. The man caught his gaze and grinned at him. Vlad Plasmius let his eyes easily slip back onto the road in front of him.

"Danny's friend…she dresses like you," Vlad Plasmius said simply, neither negatively or positively.

"Oh, I remember her. Sam, I think he called her."

"Yes, that's her name."

"She was one of the more attractive ones that came to see my show. One of the more _real_, if you understand my meaning."

"I don't, Freakshow," Vlad said, staring at the road blankly.

Freakshow waved a hand. "Oh well. I can't expect a sane person to understand someone of the opposite nature."

"I suppose not."

For a moment they were both silent, and then Freakshow said, "I must say, I'm…oh, excited to see the Ghost Boy again. I liked him, even if he was disobedient. He made a wonderful…_freak_. I'm surprised he's not a goth like his friend."

"Really? And why is that?"

Freakshow sighed, almost nostalgically. "Oh, there's so much darkness behind that smile of his. You'd be surprised. It amazes me he's even _capable_ of smiling."

Vlad could only murmur, "_Hmm_," because he did not believe it, at least, not to such extents. He knew Daniel had demons, of course he did, but surely they couldn't be so severe.

"I'm so glad you got me out of that awful place, Plasmius. They _never_ shut the lights off."

Vlad stared at the road emotionlessly, his face like stone. "I can only imagine how horrible that must have been."

"Oh, it was."

For a moment they were both silent. Then, Freakshow turned to look at Vlad. "Plasmuis?"

"Yes."

"Do I look like the Joker to you?"


	2. Chapter 2

"—and I'm just saying that there are some similarities. It's nothing to take offense to. The Joker was my favorite character when I used to watch."

Freakshow crossed his arms over his chest and huffed in annoyance, his brow riding low on his eyes. "So I'm a carnie. I am so much more disturbed than that _clown_."

"And I am not arguing with you," Vlad said tonelessly, still staring straight ahead of him as he drove, not really looking at the road but rather getting lost in it, in his own thoughts, because God knew he couldn't care less about whether or not Freakshow looked like the clown from that classic show he used to watch as a young adult and he found some form of escape in his mind. He didn't really need to look at the road either, because it was almost three in the morning, and there were very few cars on the road to worry about colliding with.

"Good. I'm my own ghost, troubled as I may be, not a knock-off of an old comic book character," he said, and added, smirking slightly, "I am Freakshow."

"And I can assure you you're one of a kind," Vlad said monotonously, doing his best to produce a smile.

Freakshow smiled proudly. "Why thank you."

"Well, it's simply the truth. Besides, even if you may resemble the Joker, he doesn't compare to you. He couldn't pull off those piercings."

Freakshow fingered his earrings, his red lips grinning broadly. "They are beautiful, aren't they? Like freshly drawn blood."

"Yes," Vlad said, his lip drawing up slightly in disgust. Even if he wasn't afraid to kill, Vlad Plasmius couldn't say he relished the blood that came out of his victims like the money that came out of their wallets and the jewelry that came off their bodies. He wouldn't describe himself as being particularly interested in things of the gory nature—in fact, he was more or less repulsed—and, as a result, he always killed very cleanly, trying to avoid a mess. The more time he spent in this car with this man, it seemed, the more differences he found in their personalities. They were, without question, nothing alike. He seemed to realize this the moment Freakshow ducked into the passenger's seat of his convertible and immediately reached for the radio and found the station that played death-metal music. Vlad realized simultaneously that working with him was not going to be a pleasant experience, to say the least, but if he was to gain control of Daniel, he needed him, whether he liked it or not.

Freakshow, however, seemed to be blissfully ignorant of this, at least from what Vlad could tell. Plasmius thought he was doing a rather decent job of appeasing his _guest_, and for the sake of politeness if nothing else, he hoped he did not seem uninterested. Even if he did, Vlad realized, Freakshow seemed to be one of those people who talked continuously and seemed to be unreceptive of the person they were supposedly having a conversation with, when it was, in reality, one-sided more than anything else. Vlad supposed he didn't mind, as long as Freakshow listened to him long enough to understand what he was to do in order to fulfill his end of their agreement.

Vlad had briefly spaced out, his mind wandering to the structure of their plan, wondering hopelessly whether or not it would work, if it would work _fully_, if they'd encounter problems, and then more loosely, how Daniel would react. He came back into reality when he heard Freakshow questioning him.

"—and the crowd seemed to enjoy that, and I would imagine the tiger did, although my assistant at the time did not feel similarly, I would imagine, but I suppose I will never know for sure because I can't ask her, of course! Nevertheless, it dawned on me. I had to make it gorier! The next show I had my lovely new assistant step into my special box, and I sawed her in half. They all looked so bored until she fell out in two pieces! The next show, my audience was twice as large. All _fake_, but money none the less. Brilliant, yes?"

"Oh, yes very brilliant. I wish I could have seen it."

"Yes, well, perhaps I can perform for you and the Ghost Boy once we've gotten this all squared away."

"Oh, I don't think he likes that sort of thing."

"I think he does."

Vlad looked briefly over at Freakshow when he uttered this. Freakshow's red eyes were glimmering slyly, knowingly, almost condescendingly. His painted red lips were pulled up into a grin, exposing his unusually sharp but slightly yellow teeth. Vlad was about to question him what he meant by this, how he knew, to be precise, when Freakshow suddenly saw something out of the corner of his eye standing in the road in front of them. He turned, and cried out, "Watch out!"

Vlad jerked his gaze back onto the road in front of them to see a shadowy figure standing squarely in the center of the lane their car was in. As the headlights shown on the figure, his eyes became wide with horror and he stood unmoving as the car barreled toward him, blaring death-metal. Vlad stomped on the brake pedal, but not quickly enough. The car crashed into the shadow-figure, sending him flying several yards away from car which came to a stop moments later, where he landed in a heap, unmoving.

Freakshow opened the door on his side of the car without pause and got out and hurried toward the person lying in the road. Vlad sat in the driver's seat in stunned silence, unmoving.

Moments later, Vlad heard the distant voice, the voice of the person he'd hit, say faintly, "Freakshow…?"

Then, a few moments later, came Freakshow's voice, "Plasmius! Come over here! It's the Ghost Boy!"

The fog that had fallen over Vlad's mind dissipated instantly. "What?" he exclaimed, jerking his own door open.

"You hit the Ghost Boy, Plasmius!"

Then came the voice of the victim, "Plasmius...?"

Vlad recognized the voice instantly this time and rushed over to the place where Freakshow stood over the heap in the road. Immediately, he identified the figure as Daniel Fenton.


	3. Chapter 3

"Here," Vlad said, handing the keys of his convertible over to Freakshow. "Pull the car over to the side of the road."

Freakshow regarded the keys briefly, his eyes burning with uncertainty and displeasure. "You expect me to drive that?"

"Yes."

Freakshow shook his head, waving his hand dismissively. "As a rule of thumb, I don't operate what isn't mine. I am very unreliable in the driver's seat."

"Goddamn it, Freakshow, pull the car over. You'll be fine. I have to tend to him," Vlad said, kneeling down beside Danny's twisted body and gingerly attempting to straighten it out.

Freakshow watched in astonishment, a small, baffled but somehow amused and knowing smile forming on his face. His red, shining eyes were wide with these same qualities, confusion and disbelief but distant pleasure.

"I think I understand," he said, grinning broadly, exposing those sharp, yellowed teeth. "You don't trust me with your precious Ghost Boy."

Vlad paused briefly but didn't look up. "No, it isn't that…it's just…I'm doing this. Just pull the convertible over here and we'll put him in the back."

Vlad's fingers wandered almost compassionately over Danny's crooked legs in a half-hearted attempt to make them appear normal once again. Danny seemed to be out of it, at least momentarily. He appeared to be slipping slowly into unconsciousness, slipping quickly and steadily, unaware, it seemed, of what was happening to his being. The whites of his eyes were fading increasingly into the blackness of the night, dimming as sleep washed over him and drug him down like the undertow snatching a small child out of his sandcastle effortlessly—this was the parallel Freakshow made, and smirked silently at the image it created.

"Plasmius," he began, putting a hand on the ghost's shoulder, "you don't seem to understand something."

Vlad shrugged the cold gloved hand off. "And what is that, Freakshow?"

"You see, really, we're in this together. Without me, you can't have him—you wouldn't have any control. If you really desire him so badly, you're just going to have to accept the fact that I need to handle him as well," the white-faced man said, smirking maliciously, condescendingly, with that same _knowingness_ he seemed to always possess.

"I'm aware of that," Vlad said slowly after a small pause.

Of course Vlad Plasmius was aware that Freakshow was going to have to handle Daniel—that was a given. In fact, their plan would not work if he was not allowed that. But it would—as it already was—anger him to no end. The sad truth was, his despised Freakshow more than anyone else he had ever worked with, and he had worked with countless obnoxious people, many of which he had worked with for this same purpose exactly. But something about Freakshow was different, enraging. It seemed that he, unlike anyone else he'd ever dealt with in regards to Daniel, had some other intention, other _plan_, to stab him in the back just when he was least expecting it. Of course, he ran into many people like this, but not when the trade was capturing the Ghost Boy, because unlike money or power, the beings he worked with didn't _care _if he had Daniel in the least. But it seemed Freakshow _did_.

Of course, he knew about the incident during which Freakshow used a crystal ball to control Danny and turn him into an obedient minion—that was why he'd chosen him, after all, because he had mastered the art of _control_. But he thought constantly, ceaselessly, that if Freakshow had tried to control and enslave Daniel once, he would have no problem doing it again. And he thought, his suspicion increasing, that Freakshow seemed oddly attracted to Daniel, to that darkness he must have inside him. He thought about their ride together, all the odd comments he'd said about him, including the one that had caused him to run Daniel over in the first place. He knew he wasn't _jealous_ that someone else cared for Daniel—in fact, he was somewhat pleased—but rather, he was worried that allowing someone who felt this away so close to the boy would complicate his own goal. Because, in reality, he did not know what Freakshow would do or had in store, he could only hope he would not do something foolish…and prepare himself incase he should do something of this nature.

"Splendid," Freakshow said, grinningly slyly. "I wouldn't want you to think you'll have him all to yourself. I have some work to do. But for now, I'll be a sport and comply—let me get the car. But I must warn you, when it comes to driving, I _am _like the Joker."

With that, the tall, slender man strode over to the convertible, climbed into the driver's side, shut the door and started the car. It jerked forward, but then, as the _Joker_ seemingly gained control of the vehicle, it smoothly rolled ahead and pulled up next to them on the side of the road. Freakshow got out and slammed the door shut and strode back over to them.

He glanced back at the car, grinned, and said, "Not bad, I suppose."

"No," Vlad sighed tonelessly as he scooped the now unconscious Danny up and carried him over to the convertible.

Freakshow was about to follow when he saw something lying a few feet from where Danny had so gracelessly landed upon impact. It glowed restlessly in the car's domineering floodlights. Carefully, Freakshow plucked it off the ground.

It was a necklace. The chain was a simple silver; the pendant was silver also, a skull with its jaws open wide, and in its jaws sat clenched was a large, glistening ruby. Freakshow noted the inscription, written in heavy black ink with an equally heavy hand, on the back and his grin spread quickly.

_Sam. There's no room to write on this damn thing. Love, Danny._

Vlad had just finished laying Danny across the backseat of the convertible. He got into the driver's seat and started the engine.

"Let's go, Freakshow."

Slyly, the clown let the necklace fall into one of the deep pockets of his trench coat. "Coming, Plasmius."

He jumped into the passenger's seat and they took off.


	4. Chapter 4

Fifteen minutes after they'd retreated from the scene of the crime, Vlad's luxury convertible sounded to alert the driver that they were incredibly low on fuel. When Vlad glanced at the fuel gauge and saw that the needle lay just below a quarter of a tank of gas his shaven face firmed with exasperation and he growled as he banged his fists on the steering wheel roughly enough to cause the car to jerk, "Goddamn it, we're almost out of gas."

Freakshow looked a tad stunned at his adverse reaction, frankly in disbelief that a person such as Vlad Plasmius could become so infuriated so easily. "You don't have money?"

"I have money," the man said, glaring at the fuel gauge. "But do you really think it would be wise to go parading through the town and to the gas station like _this_?"

"What exactly is "this", Plasmius?"

"Well, you, Freakshow, have just escaped from prison. And, frankly, you aren't the most ordinary-looking person. Someone will spot you in an instant and we'll have twice as much trouble as we already do."

"Trouble," Freakshow repeated, again, looking surprised. "We didn't have to go to the Ghost Boy—he came to us, and now he's completely disabled. I don't know what more you could ask for, my friend."

"I wouldn't have liked to hit him, in fact. We could have killed him, you know. It's a miracle he survived in the first place. The trouble is, we now have his injuries to deal with and we don't need to add anything else on top of that."

"I see," Freakshow responded, his eyes skirting over Danny who lay in the backseat, still unconscious and unmoving.

"Yes. And as we stand now, I don't believe the police have any clue as to your whereabouts," Vlad said, staring hatefully down at the receding needle. "We don't want that to change, now do we?"

"We could handle them either way."

"Then why didn't you break yourself out of jail?"

Freakshow turned to glare at him, his seemingly ever-present smirk diminishing as he pressed his lips tightly together, pursing them to keep himself from snarling, from losing his composure, but he was sure that in the two rubies he had for pupils hatefulness shown strongly.

It was, perhaps, Vlad's first realization of the true maliciousness this man he'd involved himself with processed, because even though when you looked at him you thought he was someone you would not want to encounter late at night in a dark alleyway, someone who worshiped the Devil and sat up praying to him in the late hours of the night by candlelight, once you'd spent five minutes with him you saw that he was simply a teenaged boy who was fun-loving but also happened to take an interest in the macabre as well. Freakshow might talk about his assistant being mauled or sliced in half as if he were sharing a recipe for chocolate-chip cookies, but he was always had a smile on his face and his voice was always ringing with laughter whether he wanted it to or not. Vlad was beginning to see that Freakshow really _was _like the Joker, having such evil intent and lust for blood while cracking jokes and grinning robotically with his painted lips.

"It isn't that easy, Plasmius," Freakshow said, frowning deeply at Vlad, who would not look at him. "You act as if I'd been in that place for decades. It's been less than a month. I was trying to disable the spectral-energy neutralizing…" He waved his hand in circles, unsure what to say, and again Vlad was sure he was looking at the Joker.

_I feel like Harley Quinn_, he thought, staring out the window dismally and waiting for Freakshow to find the right words. _Poor girl._

"—device," he said finally, waving his hand dismissively this time and rolling his eyes slightly.

"Well, that's all very well, but I'm not going to risk having you be discovered," Vlad said, briefly adapting that monotonousness he'd previously exhibited.

"We need fuel."

"Well, we can't get any with you looking like _that_."

"What are you suggesting?"

"You have to change your clothes before we go into town. I have a suit in the trunk. I think there might be a hat in there as well."

Freakshow's grin returned, ever so slightly. "Oh, I don't think that'll be a problem."

"What are you talking about?"

"Watch."

* * *

A/N:

I have no idea whether or not Freakshow's a ghost, okay? It's been such a long time since I just sat down and watched Danny Phantom for hours on end, and believe me, I used to. Goddamn it, I woke up before anyone else on the morning Phantom Planet premiered, and I sat down with a freaking bowl of icecream and watched it and I remember screaming because I didn't like how it was turning out (you know me w/ my Danny/Vlad father/son relationship bullsh*t), cursing a lot...but that's not the point.

Just to clear anything up, so this story makes a lick of sense, he's going to be a ghost. I don't give to sh*ts if he's actually not.

God, I hated Phantom Planet. But I do love the Joker. I'm gonna go watch Batman =)

~VC


	5. Chapter 5

Vlad stared at Freakshow in amazement, his scarlet eyes wide and shining with something that resembled disbelief, as the clown dawned his disguise. He hadn't thought it would be much, in truth—perhaps a new suit of a different color—but it was _much_, and though it always felt like a blow below the belt when he was proven wrong, he told his conscience quietly that he stood corrected as Freakshow completely metamorphosed. With a wink and a smirk, Freakshow disappeared and in his place in the passenger seat sat no one in particular—but it couldn't have been _anyone_.

The teenager looked to be maybe two or three years older than Danny, but he couldn't have been out of high school. He wore tightly fitted black jeans, a long black t-shirt, boots, and a black denim jacket. A silver dragon necklace hung from a black cord around his neck. His hair was long—past his shoulders—and his eyes were striking, like two green seas that had been polluted by dirt and oil. He was smirking slightly.

"Hello," he said, those dirty eyes sparkling dully. Vlad saw that Freakshow's voice had also changed; one would think it would have lightened, but Plasmius noted not without surprise that it had, in fact, deepened. Upon looking closer at the teenager, he saw that the boy's mouth was ringed with bristly hair, and some of his surprise diminished. "I am Frederick."

"…Frederick?" Vlad asked, his eyebrows pulling together.

"You know me as Freakshow, as I am in death. In life, my name was Frederick."

Vlad looked floored. "You mean…?"

"Yes, you've got it. This is how I appeared in life."

Vlad simply stared at the boy, unable to formulate a response, his mouth hanging slightly agape. It shouldn't have seemed odd to him; in fact, he'd found himself trying to picture how Freakshow might appear if he were alive, along with what he looked like as a child and teenager. But he would have preferred to leave that to his imagination, because seeing it for himself was beyond eerie, like looking at an old photograph. His mind kept replaying the same thing over and over: an image of this boy's body in a coffin, shriveled and rotting, worms weaving in and out of him like a piece of Swiss cheese. He shuddered.

Frederick smiled at him, not without subtle maliciousness. "You're disturbed?"

Vlad nodded. "Yes, I am."

"But you would not have known it were the same person if I hadn't told you?"

Vlad shook his head sullenly. "No, you look nothing alike."

Frederick smirked. "Then we've accomplished our goal, haven't we?"

Still frowning, his eyebrows pulled tightly together, Vlad said, "Yes, I suppose we have."

"Good." Frederick leaned back in the seat, putting his feet up on the dashboard and crossing his arms behind his head comfortably. Vlad, newly intimidated, resisted the urge to tell the boy to put his feet down, because he could not stand when people did that.

As they continued their trek to the gas station, Vlad said slowly, "So…when did you die?"

"I was twenty-five when I died of an overdose," Frederick said promptly. "I had a drug habit, and I drank too much. I suppose drugs were my way of isolating myself from my parents and their awful habits."

Vlad was about to inquire when suddenly a moan came from the backseat. His eyes widened, and so did Frederick's, and after a pause, so long it seemed forever, they slowly turned their heads and looked back, only to see that Danny was waking up.

Vlad groaned. "Just what I needed."

Of course, Daniel would be too weak to fight, and Vlad knew plainly that even if he could put up his dukes he would be, as always, no match for him. But it could pose a serious problem if he were to wake as they were filling their car with gas. If he could work up the strength to stagger out of the backseat, he would, without a doubt, expose that he'd been kidnapped. And even if he were not this able, and could only simply lay in the backseat and moan, someone might hear him and discover his injuries and whisk him away to a hospital. Vlad thought briefly of knocking him unconscious.

However, it seemed Frederick was already on this.

* * *

A/N:

Frederick? I found the name on Danny Phantom Wiki, and though I don't know if someone just pulled that out of their ass or if it's real, I was too damn lazy to make up a name for him. Deal w/ it.

Also, I'm sorry for the delay in updates. With school in session again, I can only update on weekends. But please don't think I've given up or died!

~VC


	6. Chapter 6

Danny only got a quick glimpse of the world, one that was like a flash of light, as if he were being photographed in a room draped with Cimmerian curtains. Darkness, light, then darkness again. Quickly.

He could see the sky overhead, a sky with stars that seemed to race rapidly after them, leaving bright smears trailing behind them…and then his vision was clouded once again by the barrel of a gun, one which sounded a loud, silencing thud, followed by the distinct sound of bone cracking—or so Vlad's mind seemed to have heard—upon impact on the boy's skull. Blackness came swiftly, unforgivingly , the picture taken.

Vlad had not tried to look, but the noise—this noise that so clearly resembled an old-time camera's flash, or so he thought, because he, too, had made this chilling parallel—made his heart flutter. His eyes fixed to the road ahead of him, as if stuck with soft glue that is still adhesive but can be separated with a good tug, Vlad Plasmuis would not let himself look, for he knew what he would see.

There would be a hole, oh yes, there would be a hole. It would be rimmed with loosened skin, splaying up in wave-like shapes like those that splay up when someone jumps into a swimming pool, covering everyone around them in cool water. Instead of bystanders, the blood and bits of reddened skin would coat the seats and the walls of his convertible. When Freakshow turned to sit correctly in his leather-upholstered seat, Vlad was convinced his pale face would now drip crimson.

_No roses here_, Vlad thought suddenly, frightenedly. _The only thing being painted red here is my goddamn car._

In Danny's skull, he expected there to be a gaping crack, one which exposed the gummy pink landscape of his brain. There would be an imprint here, too, a crater-like, graying hole that silenced its rhythmic pulsating.

And Danny would be no more.

"Freakshow," Vlad moaned softly, forcing his gaze away from the rearview mirror to keep himself from going mad, to keep himself from shrieking until the sound caused the rocks perched on the cliff flanking the road they drove to tumble from their places and crush them—if that was even possible. "Freakshow, you've—"

"Killed him? No," the pale-faced teenager with the silver dragon necklace said. "He's alive. Look."

"I can't," Vlad said with a certain gentleness, one that processed great weakness. "I won't."

"What are you afraid of? I say a few things about sawing people in half and letting my sweet _kitties _loose on them and you become weak on me? You know I agreed to help you capture him…alive. I am a man of my word. And besides, how would I benefit if I _did _kill him?"

"It seems to me that you enjoy that kind of thing, even if you don't benefit from it directly."

"Yes, well, I don't see how that could apply to your Danny."

"How do you mean?"

"I'd be killing one of my own kind," Frederick said slowly, a frown spreading across his cold face, replacing that usual Cheshire Cat-like grin he seemed to always be wearing.

This made Vlad's ectoplasm run cold. "What are you talking about?"

Frederick looked over at him after a small moment. He waved a dismissive hand and gave Vlad a small smile, one which he thought would be placating but was rather unnerving.

"Nothing," he said, shakily pulling in a sigh, smiling tiredly—but somehow unevenly—at the ghost before him. "Nothing, Plasmius."

Vlad turned quickly, his neck sounding a small _snap_, and stared at Frederick—_glared_, his ruby eyes boring into Frederick's usually composed demeanor like a tunnel-boring machine with undiluted hatred. "Tell me what the hell you're talking about!"

Frederick recoiled, shocked at this new display of emotion that was not completely passive from Vlad Plasmius. It was—almost—a frightening state in which Vlad had entered, but nothing the teenager couldn't handle. He'd dealt with tougher kids at his _high school _than this trick. And so after this initial surprise diminished, Frederick composed himself quickly, a small smile creeping back onto his face and mounting his lips. He put a hand on Vlad's stiff shoulder as if to reassure him.

"I couldn't kill the boy because I care for him, of course," Frederick said.

The anger fell from Vlad's face, but he had not, by any means, been appeased. Instead, he became appalled, thinking how odd it was that a twenty-five-year-old kid, a stoner who'd died of an overdose, who had more tattoos than could be counted, could care for a fifteen-year-old boy who probably didn't know what "weed" was, who was so reserved he slept with all of his clothes on—Vlad had seen this during one of his regular "spying-on-Danny" sessions. The idea was odd, because now he could only see Frederick, this kid who was just barely out of high school—who looked as if he were not capable of caring but rather simply _lusting_—, and it roused sick thoughts in the ghost's mind. His face twisted in disgust.

"You're sick," he sneered.

"I don't mean it like that," Frederick said gently. "When I had control over him I found his company to be rather pleasant." He paused. "In all honesty, I think he was the only one of my slaves I would have sat down and had a serious conversation with." He paused again, and then added for effect, because it was not true, "Besides, I like women."

In reality, Frederick had been in love with a friend he'd met at one of the many parties he attended as a kid. This friend was a light-haired, twenty-two-year-old man—Frederick had been nineteen—named Harold, or Harry, as Frederick called him, and so he in turn dubbed Frederick "Freddy". Throughout the halls of their high school, the two young men could hear the whispers. _Harry and Freddy_, they would murmur, and Frederick would make himself turn away so he could not hear what came next out of their cruel mouths, for his knife might come out, and he didn't need another suspension.

Harry had green eyes, outstanding emerald eyes—this was the first thing he'd mentioned when describing Harry to his best friend, a dark-haired girl named Monica, which she pronounced mo-ni-ka and insisted everyone else do so as well—which were his strongest feature. They looked too good for the rest of him; hatful acne had erupted on the landscape of his forehead. Blackheads nestled tightly in the corners of his nose. One of the pimples on his chin seemed to be infected, for it was red and shiny—irritated—and oozing clear fluid. His ears had been ruined by countless piercings, and his skin, likewise, marred, covered in tattoos. Frederick could remember it. A long cross adorned the length of his left arm and his left arm only, for he said it had brought him good luck to tattoo this arm solely. Thorny vines snaked up this cross and stopped at his left shoulder blade. Later, the word "Freddy" along with "Harry" had been added to this tattoo, two white ribbons that wrapped loosely around the ink cross. When Freddy saw it, he and Harry moved into a bathroom stall to kiss.

Harry's hair was rough. It had been black when they'd first met, but Frederick had given him the impression that he liked light hair, specifically white, an ongoing trend of their time, better than he liked dark, though he'd never directly said so. One day Harry came to school with his hair dyed platinum. With the adoration Frederick felt came a deep guilt, and the next day he bought a pair of colored-contacts Harry had said he liked. They were a sea-foam green, but they were also swirled with a deep chestnut. Kissing had come the next morning when they saw each other as well.

The contacts were cheap, and they'd wrecked his eyes; when he died almost six years later, he'd hardly been able to see.

When he saw Danny Phantom the first time that day from afar, he'd thought immediately, his eyes widening hopefully, weakly, _Harry?_

Lost in thought about his lost lover, he did not come back into reality until Vlad was snapping his fingers in front of his face.

"Freakshow!"

Frederick jerked slightly as he came out of his thoughts. "Yes?" he said promptly, inhibiting his almost frightened—and incredibly saddened—tone best he could, but he was incredibly shaken.

"I was saying that you'd better mean that."

"I do."

"You'd better. I won't have any inappropriate behavior. He's still young."

"So am I," Frederick murmured somberly, but Plasmius did not hear.

"I'm going to trust that he's all right. I don't want to look back there."

"He is," Frederick assured softly. "I know how to use a gun."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

Vlad considered for a small moment, then said, "Did you have a rough childhood, Freakshow?"

This was something Frederick did not want to answer, and so when they drove past a small sign announcing the town ahead, he instead said, "We'll be there soon."

"I know. Now tell me—"

"Would you mind if I drove after will fill up? I need practice. It's been months."

"I suppose," Vlad said slowly, figuring that it would keep Freakshow from harming Daniel if he did, at least. "For a few miles."

Frederick grinned, newly revived at the prospect of driving, which felt so new and exciting, for he'd had his driver's license for a mere year or so when he'd died of his drug overdose, but that sadness was still brewing beneath it all. Driving was a distraction. A distraction from Vlad's prodding. From Harry. From _Danny_. A distraction was good.

* * *

A/N:

I can see your faces right now. They are shocked. My face, however, is very tired, and I frankly don't give a damn.

Please review.

~VC


	7. Chapter 7

As the convertible neared the neon gas-station, one which stood like a lighthouse to ships on the blackest of seas in the desert over which a veil of darkness fell, Vlad Plasmius swiftly transformed into Masters, the tail of the new, sleek black coat he wore flapping behind him in the wind that surrounded his rapidly moving luxury vehicle. Frederick regarded this new form of Vlad with mild interest and perhaps the slightest hint of arousal as his muddy green eyes skirted over the length of Vlad's body and rested on his face. He had the sudden urge to reach out and touch the man's skin which had been roughened by age and experience, run his fingers through the silver fibers of his thick beard…and he almost did, but he stopped himself before he could…but there was another urge as well, one that was not so easily controlled.

One of Frederick's hands—on his ring finger, Vlad noted briefly, there was a bulky class ring with a large red stone in the center around which the words "JAMES A. GARFIELD HIGH SCHOOL. CLASS OF 1995." circled tightly, and on his pinky finger, there was a gay pride band, but the man did not recognize it for what it was—shot out and pulled the band which kept Vlad's gray hair neatly in a ponytail, releasing it as it spilled around his shoulders in soft waves like the hair of a rather sultry woman. Frederick dropped the broken band onto the floor beneath his feet as Vlad turned and stared at him in dismay, his hair sweeping gently across his forehead as he did so; once again, his eyes were removed from the road ahead of him, and Frederick prayed for any pedestrians that may be out despite the fact that he was an atheist, but it occurred to the young man that even if he had kept his eyes on the road, seeing would have proved an incredible challenge, considering the incredible amount of hair that hung in front of his face.

"Why in hell did you do that?" he barked, taking a hand off the wheel to push the loose hair behind his ear, feeling strangely violated.

"I wanted to see what you looked like with your hair down," Frederick said quickly, once again trying to placate the steaming man before him with a soft smile while rubbing his hands together feebly in an attempt to control himself.

"_Why?_" Vlad said, staring at him behind a wall of hair in undiluted astonishment.

"It's nice to get a new perspective of someone, don't you think? Judging by that suit of yours, you don't look like the type of person who would let their hair grow out, but who am I to say what is _normal_? I had you pictured as being cleanly shaven, but I suppose you are trying to preserve your beautiful hair while you can?" Frederick said quickly so that he did not desperately ask Vlad if he might run his fingers through the hair for just a moment.

Vlad's expression of amazement left and in its place there was irritation. "I'm not as old as you might imagine, gray as my hair might be."

"How old are you, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Forty-three. And what about you?" Vlad said while trying to fix his hair which fell past his shoulders and drive at the same instant. One hand on the wheel, he reached into the pocket of his suit coat and removed a new hair band. "How old are you, Frederick?"

"If I was alive," Frederick said, watching him tie his silky hair back up with mild disappointment but not without thankfulness, "I would be thirty-five now."

"You say you were twenty five when you died?"

"Yes. In 2002."

"I see," Vlad said, glancing in the rearview mirror to check that his hair was neatly tucked back into its place. "What have you preoccupied yourself with these last ten years?"

Frederick smiled, almost dreamily. "I've been doing what I've always known I would do…that is, since the Ringling Bros. Circus came to Los Angeles and my father took me. They were presenting _Dragons_, and the ringmaster gave me this," he touched the silver dragon that hung from his neck on its black cord.

"And you've been drawn to the circus ever since?"

"Yes, that's right," Frederick said, nodding. "When I graduated in 1995, I joined the Cirque School."

"My," Vlad said simply, his attention now focused solely on the road ahead of him; the death toll in his wake, still just one. Thankfully.

"Yes…but, unfortunately, I didn't get very far. They caught me smoking on campus and they told me I was never to return."

"How disappointing."

"Yes, specifically because it meant I had to return to my parents instead of the apartment I'd rented that night. How discouragingly humiliating it was, having my father carry in my luggage all the while saying, 'Frederick, I told you this would happen. I've told you that you aren't a ringmaster or a circus performer or whatever the hell it is you want to be but you've gone and fooled yourself into thinking becoming something like that is an optionsimply because I took you to see one show when you were five and you liked that man's character. But look what has happened, why I'm _right_. You've gone and blown all of your tuition, and for what? So you can shoot up behind the building?'" Frederick's young face twisted in uncontrolled hatred; a vengeful monster surfaced in the muddy green pools that were his pupils…but he was smirking, as if it were his way of controlling these current emotions. "Well, I've shown him…I've shown the bastard that I really _am _a ringmaster." He laughed, fear ringing out in his usually oh-so-composed tone.

Vlad did not look at him. Instead, he said simply, almost tiredly, as if he had already adapted to Freakshow's hysterics and now found them to be irritating rather than disturbing, "Come on. Let's fill the car up and you can drive awhile."

Composing himself quickly, Frederick stopped laughing and nodded, looking at the two-by-two block of gas pumps illuminated by florescent light attached to the overhead covering and the little rectangle in which there was a sparse spread of snacks and baked goods in bug-inhabited plastic display-cases, as well as one or two freezer-cases on the wall which held dust-collecting bottles of soda and water.

In truth, he hadn't realized they'd arrived, for in Frederick's mind, he was still at the Ringling Bros. Circus, watching _Dragons_.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N:

I want to thank Kvalificatsia for making some art inspired by this story. To say thank you, here's another chapter.

~VC

* * *

"What do we do about him?"

Frederick motioned gently to Danny, who lay heavily unconscious in the backseat of Vlad's convertible, his pale lips parted slightly, a light trail of blood trickling from one nostril. Where he'd been struck with the barrel of Frederick's gun his hair was parted slightly, but there was no fleshy hole in the skin that served as a window to his newly rotting brain, and Vlad, who unconsciously glanced over despite the fact that he would have preferred to leave Daniel's condition to his imagination, realized that Freakshow had not been joshing when he'd said he knew how to use a gun.

_Amazing_, Vlad thought incredulously. _He didn't even break the skin._

The thud that had sounded on impact advertised otherwise, for the noise, that flash of an old-time camera, was associated with such senseless violence, hatred-driven gang beatings of which the victim rarely crawled out with his heart still pumping. In truth, the boy's head _should _have had a crater the size of a baseball embedded in its surface, but it did not; in fact, aside from the bloody nose he'd received when he'd landed on the highway in such a way that it had gotten jarred, his head seemed to be the only thing that remained intact…at least to the extent that it was not torn open and twisted in such ways no limbs should twist. And while it seemed this was not possible, Vlad decided wisely that he'd be best off thanking whatever unseen force had altered the vigor of Freakshow's hand rather than agitate himself trying to decide just how this cleanness of his scalp had come to be, for he thought he'd go crazy if he did.

"In the trunk," Vlad said after a small moment, his face frighteningly monotonous, as if it were such a simple and easy command to give—though it _wasn't_. "I'll pull over."

"Does this bother you?" Frederick asked gently, filled with a newfound confidence that had derived from the prospect of getting their plan—one which would provide an endless amount of entertainment for the ghost—underway, the oppressiveness of his past removed from his mind for the moment with the idea that he would soon be able to put the pedal to the metal as he'd always done when he was alive, even though he'd failed his driver's test countless times and did not, of course, have a license.

"Does what bother me?" Vlad asked slowly, though he already knew.

"Putting the boy in the trunk," Frederick clarified, regarding the side of Vlad's unshaven face with a certain starkness but also the slightest hint of amusement. His dirty eyes were glistening dully beneath the light of the moon overhead.

"Well, of course it does," he said after a small moment of consideration. "It isn't so much that I'm worried Daniel might suffocate or wake up engulfed in darkness and be instilled with the idea that he's been buried alive or something like that. And I am not worried that someone might come along and notice us stuffing an unconscious teenage boy in the trunk of a car." He paused for a moment, unsure if he should disclose further information to Frederick, but somehow realizing that the kid who sat beside him already _knew_, and that denying it would do no good, he said stiffly, "I'm worried what he will think of _me_."

"You _do_ indeed _realize _that after I've finished with him he won't think very highly of _either_ of us?" Frederick replied, now smiling bemusedly at the gray-haired man before him, resting the side of his head on one hand, his elbow pressed into his knee so he could stare at Vlad Masters and slowly undress him with his eyes, for he reasoned that the human couldn't be as old underneath that suit of his as his gray hair advertised…

"I know," Vlad said with such heavy slowness, as if he were having difficulty forming the words. "And I wouldn't _prefer _this. But I fear I have no other option."

"You _don't_," Frederick replied, the smile now gone from his pale lips.

For a moment an oppressively heavy silence fell over them as Vlad searched for a sufficient place to pull his car over. The death-metal now had a rather suffocating quality to it, seeming so loud that the organelles inside Vlad's cells were unable to communicate and had simply stopped working, despite the fact that they had not turned the volume up a bit since Freakshow had gotten into the car. Vlad's face was twisted, not in anger but rather as if he was trying to keep himself from vomiting. Frederick simply looked mildly agitated at the lack of response from his new partner, and after a moment he said, his tone not at all processing any sense of humor or lightness, "It seems to me as though you don't particularly care for me."

Masters quickly shook his head like a woman facing her abusive husband, a desperate and tired but also incredibly frightened expression taking hold of the muscles in his face and shining brightly in his soft blue eyes.

"I don't know you," he said quietly, his hands grasping the leather-covered steering wheel with such force that his knuckles turned white.

Frederick noted this with brief amusement as well as that tired irritation. "You will soon," he sang in an almost sarcastic tone, one which derived from boredom.

Vlad pulled the convertible onto the side of the road without responding. He unbuckled his seatbelt and started to open the door on his side, but he was not quick enough for Frederick, who couldn't have cared less about accident prevention and did not have a human half to keep alive, and who, in truth, could not be bothered to take the few seconds to secure himself into the car. The pale-faced teenager was already hauling Danny out of the backseat swiftly but with such uncharacteristic gentleness that Vlad Masters did nothing more than watch with wide eyes, too stunned to interrupt the process.

Frederick looked down at Danny and smiled, unconsciously, a smile that had not graced his lips since he'd been in the presence of Harry, for this smile was not only incredibly genuine but it was also shot through with something else—lust. He studied Danny's face for a small moment, noting his slightly upturned nose with amusement, adoring the point which his chin came to. One of his hands held Danny's ass, and the other—the hand on which the class ring and gay-pride ring rested—held Danny's head. His fingers started to stroke the oily black hair, as with the smile, almost unconsciously, as he had done Harry's, which had been dark and messy before he'd dyed it white…just like Danny's.

For a moment Danny held Frederick's attention in an iron grip, despite the fact that he'd never been so unconscious in his life, that was, but after what had perhaps been thirty seconds of admiring the young, inexperienced body, Vlad's suddenly alarmed voice shattered the walls of his fantasyland, the place his mind had taken the Ghost Boy and undressed him and ran its hands up and down the length of his person.

"Well?" Vlad said, his usually oh-so-composed voice shaking so violently he was just barely capable of forming the words. "Are you going to put him in the trunk?"

"Yes," Frederick said, regarding Vlad with eyes that may have processed something like concern. "Of course."

He opened the trunk of the convertible and carefully laid Danny inside. Under the cover of the trunk's lid, where Vlad could not see him, he let his hand wander over Danny's right thigh and briefly over his crotch, but only for a small, not-so-intimate moment. Then, he closed the trunk and got back into the convertible. Vlad followed suit, looking so incredibly ill his previously-pale face had lightened to that of the complexion of a corpse.

They drove to the gas-station in silence and filled their car quickly, Vlad overcome with fear, Frederick, euphoria.

As Freddy watched Vlad pump gas into the car, he thought, smiling widely, _I've found Harry again._


	9. Chapter 9

"Are you hungry, Plasmius?" Frederick yelled to Vlad Masters over the blare of death metal, which, upon taking the wheel, he'd turned up to the highest volume possible. "Do you want to stop for a hamburger?"

"No," Vlad hollered back, his unmanicured nails digging deeply into the leather seat on which he sat beside Frederick—a feeble attempt to keep himself from destroying the radio with one hasty blast, or from being driven to the brink of insanity by the endless chant of hatred-driven screaming—screaming that was passed off as singing. "Can we turn the radio down?"

Frederick laughed, a hearty, free-spirited laugh, one that processed not-so-subtle undertones of excitement…and even if it had not, Vlad Masters could see the emotion shining wildly in his eyes, eyes like two oceans that had been polluted by an oil spill. As he observed the lanky teenager, he could only wonder if this exhilaration might be fueled by something other than the thrill of driving again, and in quite the luxurious car, at that. It was something else, something that drove his normal malicious demeanor away, back into the cave from which it crawled, and it lurked discretely beneath his robust but somehow very soft laughter. It skulked where it was rarely seen, and did its work silently, causing Frederick's eyes to glow with a certain beautiful radiance that made him look almost alive again, as Santa Claus does for millions of children on Christmas Eve. This little thing had brought happiness to Freakshow in troves, but _what_ in the hell _was _it?

"Why would I do that?" Frederick said, clutching his lower belly—at least, where a belly should have _been—_with one hand and steering with the other, his knuckles whitened as they curled around the wheel with an uncompromised tightness, still laughing. He was staring at Vlad, his eyes glistening wildly with that excitement and that _something_. "I _love _this song!"

"I don't care!" Vlad yelled. "You're giving me a headache!"

"Oh, would you _relax_? You're too high-strung, Plasmius. I know you aren't as old as your hair might suggest, so there isn't a need to act in that way," Frederick said, smiling at him…blindly steering his convertible with one hand, and recklessly. Because he was not watching the road, his hand was jerking slightly, causing the car to swerve left and right randomly, instilling Vlad with a deep sickness.

"It's your damned driving!" Vlad screamed at him, his soft blue eyes now burning with an uncompromised rage.

"I never _did _get that license," he said, and laughed again.

Vlad's hand shot out then, almost immediately, and spun the knob that controlled the music's volume swiftly so that the car had gone completely silent, and in this silence, the coyote that howled somewhere in the distance was unheard, for their ears were ringing. And then, Frederick was not smiling. In fact, all of the excitement and that underlying emotion had gone with an unbelievable swiftness but very abruptly. Now, something else inhabited his eyes, but it did not shine. The light seemed to dim, and now its dance was not quick and bright like the swirl of bodies in a masquerade but the quiet first-dance of one who does not particularly care for their partner. He was glowering hatefully at Vlad, his young face sporting wrinkles that derived from the question that rang out in his mind like the toll of a tin bell: _Did he _really _just do that?_

As if he'd said this aloud, Vlad said quickly, almost skittishly, as if to justify his actions, "You're going to wake him."

"No," Frederick said knowingly, his tongue clicking, shaking his head as he turned back to the road, a dim hatred still burning in his eyes but coupled with something else—a sense of abandonment, as well as an experienced disappointment. "He's not going to wake up. Not for awhile, at least."

"I'm sorry," Vlad said slowly, tiredly, turning to look out the window on his side, unable to stare at that face, for this face, unlike the face of the clown he'd come to know, was young and beautiful and was, in fact, much less difficult to give into. He thought that if he looked into those eyes long enough, he would turn the death metal right back up, whether driven by the dim sense of guilt he now felt or simply the fear that shot sharply through him for what might lie behind those eyes. "I hate it."

"Most people do," Frederick said, and nodded. "Harry certainly didn't."

Vlad Masters' eyebrows came together swiftly. After a moment of silence, he said slowly, his voice calculating and low, "Who is Harry?"

For a very long while, it seemed, Frederick did not respond. Vlad stared out the window, his eyes wide and flooded by thick fear, as he waited for a knife to be shoved into his spine, to be shot in the head with that camera/gun Freakshow kept, to be murdered right there after he writhed awhile in suspense like in every horror movie he'd ever watched as a boy, knowing he would die but not prepared for it in any case. And he did not dare to look around, for he was fearful of what he might see.

But before he could _see _anything, Frederick's voice came slowly, and if you listened closely enough, it became apparent it held a shaky quality, one which became diluted by his will to keep control, "I'm going to stop for a burger. I'm starving."

"We really should be getting him back before—"

"It won't take long," he reassured. "I'll go through the drive-thru."

"Freakshow—"

"Call me Frederick. As long as I remain like this, call me Frederick."

* * *

A/N:

Hey, guys. Wanted to thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to my darling who created perhaps the best (and only) portrait of Freddy, Kvalificatsia of deviantART. If you'd like to see some amazing works for this story, check out her page!

Also, please review and let me know how you like it! I love reviews and would love more of them! Please? *puppy eyes*

~VC or DM


	10. Chapter 10

When Frederick was welcomed by the rather comforting sight of the Golden Arches glowing warmly in the darkness of the night as they headed further northward toward Wisconsin, he abruptly turned the car off the highway on which perhaps one other car drove, but was otherwise completely deserted. The thought of a greasy burger and salty fries with a milkshake sounded simply _heavenly _right then, for it felt as though he hadn't actually eaten for years, and perhaps he hadn't, because as Freakshow, the need to eat, for whatever reason, shrunk soundlessly away until it was no longer there. Perhaps this shouldn't have been odd, for he _was _dead, but when he'd been alive, he'd had a seemingly unsatisfiable appetite, and many a time had he and Harry spent the late nights and early mornings of their youth in the corner booth they liked best of the McDonald's by which they lived, eating without reservation, for their slim bodies never took weight. The two had used to laugh at the stereotype by which they'd been pegged; simply because they wore black and grew their hair out and shot up behind the school didn't mean they were a couple of tree-hugging pussies who were terrified to eat meat. In fact, they gave a good deal of their money to the restaurant in which they spent most of their time talking about the stupidity of the world and their hazy and oh-so-far-away plans for the future.

"I guess that makes us a little like the other posers, huh, Fred?" Harry mused one day over a couple of burgers and an extra-large fry. "How much we hate the world?"

Freddy brushed a thick lock of greasy black hair out of his eyes with his ringed hand and smirked at his partner. "Oh, but I hate them so much more. If I could, I'd take you and get off the Earth, and I'd blow the motherfucker and every Gucci bitch up with it."

Harry smiled his same goofy but incredibly affectionate smile and kicked him lightly beneath the table. "You're so cute."

"I know."

Perhaps this reminiscence drew him into the grease-stained building from which a disgustingly delicious and enticing aroma emanated; to Frederick, those arches were like a pair of welcoming arms—probably Harry's—inviting him to come in and eat like an overweight mother, everyone's favorite on the block. He supposed he still would have been entirely unable to resist their warm glow if he had been Freakshow, because in reality, while he might have been hungry, it wasn't about food, not really.

"Freakshow!" Vlad said as the car barreled through the empty parking lot and to the drive-thru of the restaurant—if you could even call it that—that was unfortunately open very late. "I told you, Daniel needs—"

"It will only take a second. Do you want something?"

"Frederick, turn this car around right now!" Vlad said, and was bestowed with the sudden and rather unsettling sensation that he was arguing with a teenaged boy—someone very close to him…a _son_, perhaps. Odd as this may have been, the young man certainly could have _passed _for his son, not because Vlad was particularly fond of his attitude—which he wasn't, for it was more ill-mannered than _Daniel's_, even, and derived from such unbelievably childish needs only a teenager could place as necessary or important—but because his features were incredibly young and smooth. These things coupled, thirty-five or no, Vlad Masters knew he was dealing with a teenager; that was becoming ever-apparent as each moment passed.

Vlad wondered briefly if it were possible Freakshow had actually _lost _maturity with his conversion to Frederick, and who was to say such a thing was impossible? He thought that if he could have had his twenty-five-year-old body once again, Vlad Masters would have acted as he had back in his day, when his hair was still sleek and black and he got drunk while working with Jack and Maddie on a new ghost invention or dancing stupidly at clubs at which he knew no one but didn't give two shits if they stared. So could he really blame Freakshow for doing the same?

Perhaps, his mind responded immediately, he wouldn't have, if Daniel's life had not been wasting away in the trunk of their car.

Frederick laughed softly in an attempt to control himself, for he too felt what Vlad sensed emanating between them—that not-so real father/son bond that seemed to have derived from Vlad's need for absolute control—and this sickened him to such an extent that a burger didn't sound so appealing any longer.

"I've already got a dad," he said dismissively, grinning over at Vlad robotically as he pulled the car into the drive-thru, his black-painted fingernails digging hatefully into the steering-wheel's leather. "Let's treat each other like men."

"Then _act _like one."

"_Look_," Frederick said after a considering pause, his fury surfacing easily now in this petty attempt to keep Vlad from discovering just how discomposed he could be when hit the right way. "Don't you dare undermine me. I've been undermined my _whole_ _fucking life_ and I don't need to be undermined by someone like _you_. I didn't do this because of you—the Ghost Boy is what I'm after."

"And that is what worries me!" Vlad cried, his fists clenched tightly at his sides but instilled with a new force now that Daniel was safely tucked away and momentarily sound from Freakshow's sick fantasies…whatever they were.

"It must," Frederick said scornfully, his lip turned up in disgust. "You must _really _care about him, considering what you've done for him. You've had to put up with a sickeningly perverted clown—a dead one at that. A wannabe Joker. Hell, for the sake of your mentality, I hope he's grateful. This whole thing has just been _real_ _wrong_, hasn't it?"

Vlad looked over at the young man sitting beside him and saw, very clearly, a sadness which Frederick had not even _attempted _to hide, and immediately was bestowed with an odd sort of guilt; the emotion in itself was unsettlingly foreign but the idea that he could feel so for Freakshow simply incomprehensible. However, it was not rightfully so; as this strange little relationship of theirs progressed, Vlad would come to know that Freakshow was very good at manipulating the emotions of those around him with the muscles in his face, which he could so easily control. With the slightest drop of his voice or a saddened sparkle of his eyes, your demeanor seemed to melt helplessly around you as you gave into his commands.

_A master of control_. _Better than I,_ Vlad would speculate later after he'd had a good while to observe the man in action. _His father must not have been very bright, because Freakshow is an incredible ringmaster…the best I've ever seen…he's controlled _me, _hasn't he?_

Now, Vlad said softly, reaching over and touching man's knee involuntarily, "I've never said that, Frederick. And it certainly isn't true."

Frederick's pale lips turned out into a gentle pout; he was smiling innocently. "It isn't?"

"No," Vlad reassured. "It isn't. Let's just forget this and get something to eat."

Smirking, Frederick pulled ahead into the drive-thru and ordered.

When they'd returned to the highway and continued heading northward, Vlad watched Frederick gobble down a Big Mac he held in one hand while he drove recklessly with the other; regularly, he removed this hand retrieve a handful of French fries from the greasy paper bag. Vlad's eyes were wide and his mouth was slightly agape and he could only wonder helplessly when he'd given in and approved of the late-night fast-food stop.

"Plasmius?" Frederick said after he'd finished the first burger and wiped the mayonnaise from his mouth with the back of his sleeve, his eyes suddenly softening as he turned to stare at Vlad Masters. "One more request?"

"Yes?"

"Let's swing by the liquor store." His green eyes glinted dully. "Is that all right?"

* * *

A/N:

Yes, it is supposed to end there. You can only guess how the next chapter will begin.

As always, please review. I'd really appreciate any questions, comments, or suggestions (yes, I will take them, but nothing that will bother the plot).

~DM/P or VC


	11. Chapter 11

There were a few moments in time when Vlad Masters was not conscious to the world around him, though his eyes were open and his breathing had not slowed to that of sleep. His body was erect in the passenger seat of the car, the hands stiffly gripping the knees and his feet placed neatly together on the carpeted floor. Like someone lulled into a trance, his eyes were wide and his face was frozen in horror, but he remained unmoving and if there had been, say, a semi-truck barreling toward him, he would not have reacted; if a wasp had landed on his neck and he'd been allergic—and he was (it had become apparent when he'd been five and had been stung and had had to be taken to the hospital in an ambulance)—he would not have moved, even if it meant preventing the imminent penetration of his skin. And like his body, which may as well have been stoned, his mind had lapsed into a period of sleep-like nothingness in which he was not aware of the eerily still night that enveloped him.

The convertible was parked in a space outside a liquor store, one that remained open into the late hours of the night and advertised such in bright neon letters—"OPEN 24 HOURS A DAY, ALL WEEK EXCEPT SUNDAY"—and in the emptiness that encompassed the small strip mall on this surprisingly lonely Friday night, the light this sign radiated created for an uncanny but somehow too entirely perfect scene to hang framed in the form of a picture on the walls of some Gen X to gaze at after a long day at work and reminisce in memories of the glory days. The car sat alone on this cracked concrete desert, save a car that belonged to the employee working the store, and if he had been conscious—_truly _conscious, that was—Vlad might have scoffed at the Mazda sitting next to his own luxury vehicle, finding it terribly ironic that he could have the money to purchase such a car but be found at such a lowly place as the liquor store in the late hours of that Friday or the early hours of Saturday—however you chose to look at it—as only a jobless, homeless addict might, scouring the streets and purging abandoned couch cushions in search of change to fund the expedition. He would have been very embarrassed sitting in his car after having parked it beside this broken-down rattler—in fact, if he had been responsive, he would not have allowed his vehicle to leave the sanctity of the highway. But he was not, and he would not be, not until Frederick had finished selecting his drinks; this, however, would not take more than a few moments, because when it came to Frederick Showenheimer, what he wanted and where it was kept, exactly, in the majority of the liquor stores he shopped at were constants. Freddy liked hard liquor, the stuff that would make you vomit until there was nothing in your stomach and your face turn blue and cold like the skin of a corpse after you had taken no more than a few sips.

Frederick had had his share of overdoses in his day, because despite his outcast status, he drank like a frat boy when surrounded by women, and often crashed parties to pillage their stash of alcohol and drugs, which he would use with his tight circle of friends; aside Harry, he had grown up with Monica, having met in the first grade when some kid fell off the monkey bars, breaking his arm, and the two of them couldn't help but laugh. In the principle's office, they became acquainted, and were inseparable thenceforth. By high-school, they shared credit cards and bank accounts to practice-kisses when the time came they would meet their significant other. Monica, a lesbian and a self-proclaimed witch—this opinion derived from her Wicca upbringings, but Frederick found it a harsh and rather degrading assertion—sat in her bedroom and wrote poetry by candlelight as a way of expressing the pain bestowed upon her by her father's refusal to accept her homosexuality. In death—together the two had lay in a puddle of 190-proof Everclear, which she had somehow gotten her hands onto, although he would never know how, exactly—Monica adopted the name Lydia, for she had always loved the name—it had belonged to her grandmother, who had replied when she'd questioned at the age of seventeen, just discovering her sexual origins, if she, like her son, believed it to be wrong, "Aren't we all, just a little?"—but had never managed to find the money to alter her own in life.

In and out of their circle were an array of drug-dealers, and the three of them smoked the nights—and days, for that matter, when they did not feel like going to school—away in the sanctity of Frederick's bedroom, the walls in which plastered with posters of the greatest ringmasters (George Claude Lockhart and Tommy Hanlon Jr., as well as several other posters he'd purchased at the smaller circuses he'd gone to of lesser-known figures) and a jumble of photographs he'd taken himself of the circus in all its glory and some gothic artwork that might have made anyone else cringe but would lull him to sleep if he stared at it long enough, with whoever was supplying. Together they'd smoke weed, inject themselves with methamphetamine, snort cocaine, use a variety of hallucinogens and mushrooms, or perhaps a few, in a pinch, but usually they refrained from using everything at once. On the night of his death, however, shortly after turning twenty-five, he and Monica _had_ used a good deal of everything, and the illegal liquor they drank when they'd finished had sealed the deal—or, really, their _fate_. Harry had been recruited to drive his mother to her rehab once again on this night, and the morning prior was the last time he heard from his lover, who had sent a text message in reply to his in which he explained his absence and wished him a well time. "It's O.K., babe," Frederick's text had read. "I'll drink the pain of your absence away—Monnie says she's got some real hard shit ;)"

Harry, assuming Monica had raided her father's liquor cabinet and had found some whiskey or vodka or gin or rum—something potent but would go down easy for his significant other—had thought nothing of it, and taken his mother to rehab as planned. The next morning, he took his car over to Freddy's house, a luxury home only the wealthiest people could afford—and thus his parents had no trouble—with the intention of making love to him in apology for going M.I.A, and was met with the sight of several police cars parked hastily about the street and in front of his driveway. There was an ambulance as well, and the drug-dealer that had hung around, a tough kid that had come from a Christian home and dubbed with the name of Ellis but insisted he be called the title of his favorite wrestler, the Undertaker, was being removed from the home on a stretcher—Monica and Frederick, however, were being taken to another vehicle, one that was very much like the ambulance but instead sported the name of the city's morgue on its side in morbid Victorian lettering. They were not on stretchers—rather, they were in body-bags. One of the policemen exiting the house carried several bags with evidence in them. In one, the empty bottle of Everclear.

That night, Harry would be admitted to the hospital after ingesting perhaps enough alcohol to tranquilize a large elephant and was found unconscious on the floor of his bedroom. In cruel irony, however, as seems to be the case so frequently, the blonde-haired boy did not die.

It would seem that Frederick should despise the stuff with everything in his lanky body, but he did not; rather, the idea of submerging himself in the sanctity of alcohol attracted him now more than ever, because now there was no Harry to lose, to harm; no parents to leave wondering what they could have done to prevent the tragedy. Now, Frederick felt completely detached from everything, all of his worldly ties loosening and allowing him to act unreservedly, as he pleased, without consequence, no longer weighed down by the idea that he might cause the people he cherished some sleepless nights in the long-run if he did. And this is the most liberating feeling one can feel—it is like knowing your parents will be gone for the weekend and you are given the freedom to open your house up to every kid in your high-school. But Showenheimer's party was endless, his mother and father never returning, and so he had no trouble snatching bottles of Schnapps and Scotch and Korn off the shelves, a smile—perhaps the most natural yet—tugging at the corners of his lips with the idea of his release from the prison that was love and family. In fact, he was so overjoyed that he might have paid for the liquor he was carrying in his arms—at least a hundred dollars worth—but he had no money on his person, and so he simply walked to the door, only to be intercepted by the Mazda-wielding clerk.

"Hey, you have to—"

But that was as far as he got, because in that moment Frederick whipped around in one swift motion, with such grace that the bottles of liquor did so little as clatter slightly against one another, and glared into the brown eyes of the salesclerk, his own twinkling calmly, although there was no denying the enjoyment—rush, buzz, high (all words Freddy used to describe the affects of the drugs he ingested)—that underlay. And as the brown left the chunky clerk's pupils to be replaced by the ruby red of Frederick's class ring, so did all the emotion that had been so clearly exhibited on his features—the fear, the need to defend what was his (at least until nine A.M., that was).

"I'll be taking these," Frederick said softly, tapping a bottle with his knuckles, enjoying the sound it made with an odd meticulousness.

"Yes, sir," the clerk said tonelessly, his eyes staring straight ahead as a corpse's will, the features stiff and cold and unmoving.

Satisfied, Frederick turned and left the store in which this clerk would stay for several hours in such a fashion until they'd gotten safely away from the strip mall and onto the highway again; the bells on the door clanged as it was shut, and the gangly boy walked to the convertible with his liquor. After a moment of attempting to open one of the doors with a jumble of bottles in his arms, one of his booted feet struck the door with enough force to draw Vlad Masters from his unwilling slumber. And, unsurprisingly, he did, starting slightly and then slowly and confusedly glancing about the car for clarification of what had just happened and where he was, exactly; in truth, Frederick did not think he'd seen Vlad so utterly out of his element before, and he would be lying if he said he did not find this quality attractive, but while he could have stared at that face for ages—the lips slightly parted, the eyes wide and shiny, the nose out questioningly in a manner that could have gotten him up with little trouble—the liquor was growing heavy, and he jabbed the door again with the toe of his boot. At this, the man's gaze abruptly shifted to the place Frederick stood just outside the door of his car, bottle upon bottle of liquor in his hands, a small, indulgent smile pasted onto his face.

And Vlad did something that Frederick had seen no other do upon emerging from the trances he induced: the man threw back his head, and shrieked.


	12. Chapter 12

"Quiet!" the teenager hissed, a hand immediately coming down over the man's mouth without the slightest hint of hesitation; that easy, enabling composure seemed to backfire this time, however, as several of the cool glass bottles he'd selected fell from the cradle of his crossed arms and to the pavement, where they shattered and wetted the dusty and crumbling surface as their contents splayed up and fell like rain. One of the glass bottles hit Frederick's booted foot and broke there, causing the teenager to suck in a tight breath of air and the young face to twist in a way that was incredibly unattractive (that was, just in case Harry happened to be lingering around), but he had not lost so much control as to dampen the pavement with any more of his precious alcohol, as he was not entirely certain when he'd be able to get his hands on more of it again, especially considering that he was in the presence of an all-business, no fun type, the kind he'd always hated—all-business/no funs were typically very corporate, very money crazed, and enough of them labeled people of his nature, those who liked to drink and use and _enjoy_, as hippies and addressed homosexuals as fags (at least those he'd encountered)—and who he'd only _really_ been able to control so as to be granted access to the stuff because of the circumstances of their situation (perhaps the late hour contributed to Vlad Plasmius' weakness, but Frederick found himself believing that perhaps it was rather the unsettling idea of what they had done in knocking out a fifteen-year-old child with the butt of a gun, and the rather exciting but frightening [in its uncertainty, of course] future that may lay ahead). Instead, the dark-haired teenager simply paused to let the pain pass into a dull thud, the foot lifted up slightly so that to anyone who might have been present that cold night could observe that he looked too much like a flamingo, his lip bit and his eyes shut tightly, watching as neon blobs of nothing floated before the black canvases and danced irregularly in a fashion he and Monica and Harry might have in the late hours of the night when they were all high off their asses. When this pain finally did pass, he carefully let his boot fall onto a part of the pavement where there was not sparkling shards of expensive bottle and opened his eyes to stare down at the man sitting in the passenger seat.

The man might have proved to be a sight—he was shaking as he stared at the teenager who stood over him, clutching bottles of liquor in his arms and returning his horrified gaze with a hardened glare of his own. But Frederick wasn't really thinking of Vlad Plasmius then, even though his eyes were affixed to his face and his hand plastered over his mouth, slowly being warmed and moistened by his rapid breath—rather, he was thinking about the way that bottle had felt as it had broken upon impact with his foot…one enclosed in the supposed safety of a heavy, steel boot. It was perhaps one of the most painful sensations he'd felt in a very long time—other than the splitting headaches he'd get the morning after a good party with friends or a wild night alone with Harry or Monica, that was—and it sent his mind into a state which resembled the course of a Ferris wheel but which didn't alter his face, as his features remained unchanging, the eyes reflecting no evidence of such frenzy. Questions began to present themselves, and as he stared down at the man, he appeared to be cool as a cucumber but in reality his mind was shrieking, _That hurt! Why the hell did that _hurt_? _But the part of him that was higher, more intelligent and calculating, immediately countered this with a smart, _Why do you think, moron? You know you can't stay in this form forever! It uses too much energy!_

Well, he knew that, of course, as he'd used this form before and experienced its draining nature; his human form was good for seducing young women who naturally assumed he was straight into giving him money for drugs and alcohol, as well as means of preserving the (nonexistent) integrity of his circus when concerned parents would drop by to see just what their child was being _fed_. After all, a pretty, young, and surprisingly unaffected face—considering the never-ending stream of drugs that made their way into his body—appeals more than that of an aging, hairless and shrill clown, as to be expected…and _should_, because when he'd whip out his sweet-teenage-boy smile and shake the missus' hand, saying something along the lines of, "I just graduated from high-school and it's been my dream since I was little to operate a circus. My dad took me to see _Dragons_." the face would melt and all suspicion and concern would leave immediately as she responded with something like, "How wonderful to have chased your dream and succeed so!" He wasn't lying, really, but he wasn't disclosing the whole truth to his circus, either; he may have looked in his twenties, but he had the desire for pleasure like a balding and sexually-starved hermit, surrounded by that which pleases the eyes…and because there were plenty of attractive young men who came to his circus, he constantly _was_, and sometimes he could not keep those eyes from manipulating the boy to follow him into his trailer after the show's completion and night's dawning.

Yes, he had used this form time and time again, but he could not see how this truth might connect to the pain that the bottle's shattering had evoked inside him—that was, until the higher part of him screamed out again, bringing forth the knowledge that was always there but typically buried in the muck of his highs and alcohol binges and only seemed to come forth, like clockwork, when he needed it most. It said, _Stupid, you've never used this form for so _long_ before now! It's used so much energy that it's weakened you to a point that your being is becoming unstable!_

And this little voice was all he ever needed, really, to dictate the decisions he made, insignificant or otherwise they may be; he believed that that voice was smart, the voice he knew he'd always had, one which should have been put to med or law school but was too consumed by his unfortunate habits. It was sad, really, because when he did hear this intelligent voice, with its elegant wording and condescending tone, he was reminded of the thing his parents had been and had wanted him to become, and how his failure to live up to their standards had led them to die in disappointment, knowing they had themselves failed to produce something they could be proud of in the afterlife they so feverishly believed, something which would take the world by storm and which they could look down upon and say, "That's our boy!" But that voice wasn't him, never had been; really, the worst thing his father could have done to him was take him to the circus that one day so distant in the past but closer to his thoughts than most things, because perhaps if he had not tasted the freedom that was the life of a ringmaster, that voice would be his now and perhaps he'd never cross paths with Mr. Plasmius, because he'd be in an office somewhere or performing complicated surgery, arguing the freedom of a client or looming over factory workers as he brushed money across his lips and inhaled its sweet scent. But that voice was buried, and although he never refused hints from this smart voice, he would die with maybe five dollars and some cents in his pocket, and would play the role of surg_e_, not the surgeon, the defendant, not the defender.

Now he took from this voice that he should not remain in this form any longer and should rest so as to restore his dwindled energy, and he did not fight it much because he was frankly very tired of driving and deduced that he wanted the Ghost Boy in one piece but also felt the growing desire to get himself very drunk, very quickly. Plasmius could take the wheel—after all, the man looked a _tad _stressed when condemned to the passenger's seat, and so he probably wouldn't mind steering the rest of the way.

"Okay," Frederick said softly, his attention shifting back to the fidgety man before him, whose heart was now skipping with the irregularity of a rabbit's. "I'm going to take my hand off your mouth. Don't scream. I know it's very deserted looking out here, but we don't need to draw any type of attention to ourselves."

When Vlad's mouth was freed up, he did not try to scream, and, seemingly satisfied, Frederick opened the passenger door and used his unoccupied hand to shoo Vlad out of the seat; the man stumbled out, looking dazed, as Frederick climbed in with a certain meticulousness so as not to drop any of the remaining bottles of liquor he held. When he was situated, he shut the door and poked his head out the open window; as he changed back into Freakshow, he smiled at Vlad and said, "You're driving, chief, but I'm drinking."

And he did just that.


End file.
